What time was it? No one could tell. Time didn’t exist anymore, it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was getting your brother and sister their first meal of the day. But it was not at all easy to do. Not while there were thousands and thousands of fungus- brained blood-thirsty stalkers out there.

Sometime later you had finally found yourself and your siblings’ first meal of the day just outside of your nearly demolished home. There it was, a hefty tin- can of peaches and green beans rolling through the bumpy concrete out on the street. It was windy, but not windy enough for 4 pounds of delicacy to blow effortlessly down the block. Suspicious but hungry and determined, you covered yourself in the sturdiest armor you could find and set off into the street, aware of your surroundings to not encounter any hungry day stalkers.

Day stalkers. They were 6 feet tall creatures attempting to resemble humans, but failing. They had grey, rotting skin, lesions and open wounds filled to the jagged edges of their torn skin with wriggling maggots, their teeth were sharp and painful, they had red beady eyes, claws on their fingers the length of a Harpy Eagles’. Their nostrils were as wide as cannons—assisted them in instances—they could smell fresh blood from a mile away. These creatures were a mix of zombies and vampires. The only pro to this con was that they were limpers. They didn’t run, they didn’t walk, they didn’t even jog, they limped.

Unsuccessfully capturing your meal of the day meant taking a risk that could get you killed, and trying to grab those tin-cans of food that day nearly killed you when you were set up. The tin-can’s of food was a trap. It was a trap for the stalkers—the creatures that stood in place and studied you for a minute before they began to charge at you. You fell for the trap, a thick rope tightly wrapped around your ankle, attempting to break your ankle if somebody asked you.

You wondered why the cans were smothered in red paint, but quickly realized that it wasn’t paint after the rope looped around your ankle so quickly, it knocked you into your back and your head hit the concrete, knocking you unconscious.

There was an aroma filling the air. You shifted on your back with your eyes still clamped shut, expecting the feeling of claws of stalkers ripping and tearing through the flesh on your stomach, but was greeted by the warm and angry crackle of a fire somewhere nearby. You opened your eyes, your vision slowly coming and all and of your other senses. Your head throbbed in excruciating pain as you attempted to lift yourself on your elbows, but failing miserably and deciding to stay lied down on your back. It wasn’t concrete you were lying on, it was wood now. You weren’t outside, you were- “Oh, you’re alive.” An unfamiliar voice said very unenthusiastically. Who was that? Where were you? And how were you still alive?